What wounds did ever heal but by degrees?
by miss Kittyplank
Summary: After Season 3 Christmas special. A story exploring Mary as she comes to terms with Matthew's death and looks to the future. Mentioning characters in Season 4 (i.e. Charles Blake/Lady Rose etc.) and some hints towards Mary/Evelyn Napier. Unsure of rating, but we'll say K to be safe. Mary is main character, but wide range of Downton characters. *POTENTIAL SPOILERS FOR SEASON 4*
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! Just a big thank you to everyone who read and reviewed Home Is Where The Heart Is - I promise that's not the last you've seen of that storyline, but I've had this idea in a head for a while. I'm really interested to see how they handle Mary post-Matthew, so seeing as we have to wait until autumn, I thought I'd have a crack at it now. In this story, I've got some of the faces that are said to be in season 4 (i.e. Charles Blake/Lord Anthony Gillingham etc.) and there are some hints of Mary/Evelyn Napier but not too much that you're put off, I hope. Obviously references to Mary's love for Matthew as well. This is more of seeing how she's dealt with it, with her family and her moving on, so to speak. The italics are more of the immediate aftermath with no time references, and every else picks up from September 1922 when she's gone to London.**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy and, as always, reviews are alwaaaaays appreciated!**

* * *

**Chapter One:**

_She eased herself down on the bed. Still tender. Not surprising, she'd only given birth three days before. _

_"Are you sure that this is where you want to be? I can have Mrs. Hughes ready another room..."_

_Another room that wasn't _their_ room. Hers and his. It had been hers alone for so long - and in less than two years, it was hers alone again. She could barely think, only sensing her mother's anxious thoughts coming at her from the end of the bed, Anna adjusting her pillows around her. _

_"Where's the baby?" Mary cleared her throat, it sounded hoarse. She hadn't strung more than a few sentences together, not since..._

_"Downstairs, with Isobel and your father. Granny here's too - her first chance to see him. Have you given any more thought to a..." Her mother trailed off as Mary flinched at the question. A name. They all wanted her to name him. But how could she possibly, when they were supposed to christen the baby together. A list of names that they'd never got around to making because the baby had come early. He'd come early and her husband had driven to see them, driven and..._

_If he had a name, then this was real. Then she truly had a son - who truly didn't have a father._

_"It doesn't matter." That soft American lilt hoped to soothe, but it couldn't. "It can wait. Not until you're ready, my darling."_

_Ready? How could she possibly be ready for this?_

* * *

_London, September 1922_.

"A year old, I can hardly believe it." Mary smiled politely into her teacup at her aunt's words. "And I'm so sorry to have missed it."

Rosamund didn't bother to acknowledge what other event had seen a year go by and Mary was thankful for it. Although Mary could not imagine that her aunt was particularly sorry to have missed her great-nephew's first birthday. Rosamund, never having had her own, had always remained somewhat adverse to the presence of children. Looking around her aunt's drawing room, as immaculate as always, trinkets and vases low enough for any child's hand to reach out for them, Mary couldn't envision bringing George or Sybbie here. And she doubted her aunt could envision it either.

"You didn't miss much." Mary assured her, trying to dismiss the matter casually, but she sighed inwardly as Rosamund, ever the observer, raised an inquiring eyebrow, knowing there was more to the story than that. Of course, there had to be. Why else would she abandon Downton the next day, leaving her son behind?

"And you've enjoyed this past fortnight in London, Mary?" Rosamund went on, stirring her own cup.

"I've been a chaperone to Rose." Mary replied. "Mama doesn't trust her alone in London and I thought I could use a holiday."

"You thought you'd escape the country for the city smog?" Rosamund inquired drily, becoming more like Granny as time went on. Mary, the child, the young woman, the wife, would have raised an eyebrow of her own, and given a sharp retort making it clear that her aunt should mind her own business, but Mary, the _widow_...She put her teacup down and sighed. She had no defence; she couldn't stand Downton any longer. Rosamund swallowed guiltily, having expected a spar only to be greeted with defeat. She saved Mary from answering. "Well, I understand how suffocating Yorkshire can be." Mary nodded, playing with her strand of pearls absentmindedly. "Mama sent me a recent photograph. Whilst Cora and my brother are undoubtedly biased, I can say honestly that George is quite a handsome baby."

Mary smiled at that, despite the pang she felt to hear his name yet to not be near him. "Thank you. Isobel says that he takes after...his father."

"Raven hair, those round cheeks - he looks just as you did as a baby." Rosamund frowned, before shrugging lightly. "But I suppose she would say that. Wouldn't we all?"

Mary gave a shrug of her own. George had his eyes, those piercing blue eyes. She didn't know whether to be pleased about that or not, but she couldn't lie to herself. George looked like she had once. He even seemed to act as she did, often restless and irritable. Mary was hoping that was simply a case of his tender age rather than an indication of his personality, but Sybbie had been such a good baby that she wasn't sure what to think.

She glanced back up at her aunt who looked almost uncomfortable, which was a rare sight. As if she had run out of things to say, questions to ask. Mary knew that she should probably start politely inquiring after Rosamund, but these last two weeks had rather been a blur. She'd stepped off at King's Cross and shut down in many ways. She no longer had to maintain a smile for her parents or for Isobel; Rose didn't seem to expect anything from her. Granny could always read her like a book, but thankfully the Dowager Countess didn't dine at Downton every night. And now, it was hard to pretend that she cared again, about any of it.

"...Do you miss him?"

Mary's face softened at the question. Well, she did care about that. Her darling boy, her little George, all those miles away. It had seemed the right decision at the time. She had needed to get away, but she hadn't wanted to disrupt his routine. He enjoyed Sybbie's attentions in the nursery, and Isobel would have probably followed her to London, pleading for Mary to return with her grandson. But God did she miss him! Quite simply, he was everything to her. Mary gave a small smile, but the first true smile since arriving in London. "Oh, Georgie's in good hands - he won't want for anything whilst I'm away, and this is only temporary. Though, I admit, he's never far from my thoughts."

"No, I meant..."

Mary started as Rosamund trailed off in embarrassment, as comprehension suddenly dawned on her. _Matthew_.

She licked her lips, hoping to slow down her heart, now pulsing in her ears.

"I try not to think about him at all."

* * *

_"I can't stop looking at him. He's so beautiful." _

_She almost grimaced as her mother-in-law - or former mother-in-law, she wasn't sure how it all worked now - held her son even closer, unwilling to let the baby out of her sight for a moment. Papa had insisted Isobel stay to help the new mother, and she'd obliged. And now she wouldn't leave._

_"I thought, perhaps, we should christen him Matthew." She heard Isobel whisper as she looked out into the garden. It didn't matter, the older woman only had eyes for the baby. "It's only right. I suppose it was going to be Reginald before, was it?"_

Reginald._ After Matthew's father. The name whirled around Mary's mind; she cringed in distaste. No, Reginald hadn't been raised. No name had been considered. Matthew had been so busy with the farms and she with the nursery that they'd decided, that when they'd finally returned from Scotland, more than a fortnight before her due date, they'd choose names together. Always efficient, Matthew had been so sure that they'd settle on something quickly._

_"It's nice how Tom honoured your sister like that. This way, there'll be a Matthew Crawley, Earl of Grantham, after all."_

_Her gaze went to Isobel, irritated. Isobel had never cared about the earldom and Downton before, not like Mary had. This wasn't how things were meant to be at all, and having a Matthew as a son wouldn't replace Matthew as a husband. And Isobel could not do any replacing either._

_"He's my son, not yours."_

_It was the clearest she'd spoken, her tone unwavering. They were in shock, both wild in their grief, processing it in differing ways. Her Mama's gasp, pausing in her sewing, told her that she'd been cold. But she didn't have it in her to apologise. _

_"I know," the older woman whispered, finally lifting her eyes from her grandchild, "- _my_ son is dead."_

_She didn't even blink, choosing to look back out on to the garden, to watch the gardener tend her mother's roses. "I like George."_

_She could feel rather than see her mother sit up straighter. "George? That's a strong name. Did Matthew like-"_

_"_I_ like George, Mama. Who else decides but me now?" _

* * *

Mary closed her book shut, unable to concentrate. Her mind drifted back to her afternoon tea with Aunt Rosamund and was grateful that, instead of staying with her aunt, her Papa had acquiesced to her wishes and allowed her to open up Crawley House. The luxury of being a widow - she didn't need a male relative to open up the house for her. Sighing, she returned the book back to its rightful place - even without her father there to watch her, she would have felt guilty for misplacing it - and made her way to the hall and upstairs. At Downton, she would have retired earlier but she'd assured the London housekeeper - Mrs. Wright - that she wouldn't need a maid to undress her in the evenings. Having not the heart to tear Anna away from Mr. Bates, she had no need for late night chats with a stranger, the maids coming and going far more from her father's employ in London than in Yorkshire.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Mary's hand stopped on the banister, as music came quietly down the corridor. She shook her head smiling and turned away from it towards her room. Cousin Rose and her jazz. She supposed the girl was readying herself for another night on the town. Soon, a cab would pull up outside the house and Rose would sneak out as best she could, only to return, stumbling, in the early hours of the morning just before the servants arose. It was almost sweet - how she thought Mary was none the wiser, how she feigned she wasn't tired at breakfast or feigned a morning's migraine at lunch when she was too tired to rise at all. What a terrible chaperone Mary had proven to be. But Rose was young and unblemished. Perhaps not unblemished in conventional ways - Edith had soon apprised her of their young cousin's tryst with the married Terence Margadale - but she still had the innocence of a girl who thought she had the world at her feet, who thought that falling in love and being happy were one in the same.

Suddenly feeling very old and not caring for the sensation at all, Mary paused at her door and before she could really think about her actions, headed back down the corridor to her cousin's room, opening its door without even bothering to knock.

Music from the gramophone assaulted her ears, but she regained her senses quickly enough to see Rose jump up in surprise from her seat at the window sill and throw out of the window what Mary could only presume - from the distinct smell of smoke in the room - to be one of the many cigarettes young Rose had enjoyed this evening.

"Mary! I thought you'd gone to bed - I was just heading to bed myself."

Mary raised a wry eyebrow, her cousin somehow making her feel much more herself than her more familiar Aunt Rosamund had done so this afternoon, and looked at Rose appraisingly. A cream flapper dress fringed at the bottom, jewellery glittering round her neck and hanging from her ears and holding a cocktail in her hand, its contents undoubtedly snuck away from her Papa's drinks cabinet downstairs. Mary didn't even bother to reply.

Rose swallowed nervously, knowing she'd been caught red-headed. "Please don't tell your mother, she'll tell _my_ mother - or worse, Aunt Violet!" She bit her lip, dark red with lipstick. "It was only this once, I swear." Another eyebrow from Mary. "Alright, not just this once - but please don't tell anybody! I have been trying - I haven't allowed any gentlemen any liberties! I just love to dance, that's all, - and I promise this is my first drink!"

She seemed so sincere, wanting to please but unwilling to bend in order to do so. Mary could see why Rose reminded her mother of Sybil and thus why Mama had taken the daughter of her husband's cousin under her wing. But Granny maintained that Rose was far more like the eldest Crawley sister. Stubborn with a strong ability to manipulate and the potential to land the family in scandal - only far more of a handful, for Rose - the baby of the MacClares - did not fear the consequences of her actions as Mary did, as Mary always seemed to do.

Mary sighed inwardly; she wasn't much of a liar but even she could do better than Rose. "Where to this time?"

Rose frowned prettily, but guiltily. "...the Blue Dragon."

"A favourite of yours?"

"Well yes, but I don't go with Terence, if that's what you're thinking - Matthew made me see the light on that score." Rose insisted, honestly this time. Mary only blinked a little; only Rose was able to mention Matthew without checking to see how Mary took it. Rose didn't make a point to mention him or a point _not_ to as so many others did. As if there was no reason to halt over his name. As if nothing had changed since they'd gone up to Duneagle Castle at all. Mary felt lighter for it - Rose was simply incapable of bringing Mary down or putting her in a bad temper. Perhaps Mama was right, then; Rose was like Sybil.

"Have you drunk the last of that, or is there more?"

It was Rose's turn to blink. "No, of course not," she stuttered, smiling breathlessly as she opened up her closest and reached down for the bottle hidden at the back. "but I'm afraid the best I can do is a gin rickey! I already mixed it, so - here!" She laughed, thrusting her glass towards Mary.

Mary smiled obligingly, and took a sip. Rose spurred her on, unimpressed; she took a bigger sip. Her eyes watered a little. "This is strong."

"A little Dutch courage, that's all."

"Scared to go dancing?" There was that eyebrow again, it felt good, familiar. She took another sip.

"No," Rose smiled, daring to take a swig from the bottle and inviting Mary to sit on her bed beside her. "Scared that one day soon I won't find the Blue Dragon as fabulous as I always do."

Mary sat a little uncomfortably, nervous to slosh her glass on bed. "Matthew said it was like the outer circle of Dante's inferno." She started at his name entering the conversation so easily.

Rose shrugged, not understand it and not noticing her cousin's pause for thought. "He may have prevented me from wasting my life on Terence, but only a stick-in-the-mud wouldn't enjoy the Blue Dragon."

Mary almost spluttered on her drink. "A stick-in-the-mud?" She wasn't sure whether she was supposed to defend him, so rarely did anyone have a bad word to say about Matthew. Especially now. Never speak ill of the dead, that was it, wasn't it?

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, " Rose was quick to defend herself, her fingers tapping away to the jazz record, "you and he are of a different generation - my parents can't stand all this jazz either."

Mary's eyes widened, aghast. _Different generation!_ She couldn't believe it. Sweet Rosie MacClare who'd - to Edith's continual annoyance - emulated the elegant Mary Crawley as a young child, following her faithfully around Downton and Duneagle, who'd insisted that only Mary's opinion would do when picking out her debutante gown, now thought her _old_. She was being compared to Cousin Shrimpie and Cousin Susan, for God's sake. With everything going sour in her life, the accusation of being a bore was almost too much.

"The eleven years between us does warrant a generation."

Rose's brow furrowed at her older cousin's tone, realising she'd caused offence. "Oh, no. I didn't mean that exactly..." And yet another eyebrow was sent her way. "You're more fun than Edith."

Mary snorted, throwing back the rest of her drink. "_That_ is not the compliment you think it is."

Rose sighed, leaning into her pillows. "You're not going to let me go." It wasn't a question, young Rose was quite sure of it.

"Come now, Rose," Mary held out her glass for a refill, "are you going to give up that easily? Where's your insistence that you're an adult and can do what you like? That, were you to acquiesce to an authority figure, I am neither your mother nor even my mother and therefore have no say in your evening plans whatsoever?"

The younger woman sighed again. "Yes, I spend my night as I desire, but afterwards, you inform your mother who informs my mother of my evening - who books me on the first available passage to India."

Mary shook her head. "Mama wouldn't do that." She assured her softly, knowing her mother's good heart. "And I may be guilty of many things, but spilling secrets has never been a sin of mine." Rose grinned a little at that, looking younger than her years and, despite her protestations, making Mary feel rather old. "But you cannot go alone."

Rose wilted at her older cousin's words. That was the end to the fun, then - and it had only lasted a fortnight. "I suppose, it wouldn't be proper." She said, swigging the bottle again remorsefully.

"No, it wouldn't." Mary said, her tone brooking no argument. "Which is why I'm coming with you."

* * *

The first thought Mary had when they entered the Blue Dragon was that she'd made a terrible mistake. In fact, she'd almost grabbed Rose's arm to leave, but then she'd turned and spotted her cousin's delighted smile, remembered her haunting words of different generations and forced herself to stand straighter, forced herself to have an open mind. Matthew had never really cared for dancing or parties but Mary always had done so, and he loved that about her. How giddy she got before a ball, how flushed she was after a dance and then he'd grin at her as they lay together in bed, simply content to see his wife happy. _I'm glad that you enjoyed yourself, darling._

Well, if she could enjoy a waltz and a reel, she could enjoy...whatever it was that these people were doing. Mary's eyebrows rose up her forehead to see so many couples squeezed on to the floor, the gentlemen holding the ladies inappropriately, their hands wandering, some couples even daring to kiss. Mary blinked away, swallowing tightly. Matthew and she had never kissed in public - and they never would do.

"Champagne?" Rose smiled, not bothering to wait for Mary's answer as she dragged them to an available table, her eyes continually scanning the room for anyone she might know, but her cousin sensed she was looking for someone in particular.

Mary allowed herself to be pulled along, her own eyes scanning the various clientele, too, around the room, her eyes widening at the many married men she knew of who were enjoying the company of women who weren't their wives. She was starting to feel very out-of-place. Nothing Mary owned had been short enough - _how do you expect to dance in a gown which touches the floor?_ - and so she was uncomfortably clad in Rose's daring attire, a black silver-beaded flapper dress. Rose had thought the black would be in-keeping with a widow's wardrobe. Mary wasn't convinced that it had been a joke. Regardless, despite her evening coat, she felt horribly under-dressed and now understood better why Rose needed a glass of something or two before she left the house.

Coming to sit in the booth and removing her coat, Mary frowned as Rose didn't bother to get the attention of the waiters who walked by, but instead waved and beckoned a gentleman or two she knew from God knows where. "I thought you wanted champagne."

"Yes, but why pay for it yourself," Rose asked, still smiling cheerfully at the men who were coming over, "when there are men willing to pick up the bill?"

Mary didn't have a moment to chastise such a comment before she saw one of the men blanche before her. She frowned in recognition. _Charles Blake_. So much for hating town and preferring county pleasures.

"Lady Mary, how lovely to see you again." Charles smiled handsomely, his voice just as smooth as she remembered.

"You know Charlie?" Rose blurted, before slapping her forehead, forgetting herself. "Of course, you do - Cousin Cora's summer party, that's how we first met!"

Mary only nodded, taking note of Rose's reddened cheeks as Charles Blake smiled politely in agreement at her. _So long Terence Margadale_. His attention quickly turned to Mary, appearing ever so charming but he seemed embarrassed to her. It served him right, she supposed, smiling pleasantly as he introduced the pair to his good friend and school chum, John Ardley. Rose offered another smile but not as bright for the poor Mr. Ardley, not that anyone but Mary would notice such a thing, and her cousin was quick to invite the two gentlemen to sit with them before Mary could object.

However, Charles paused before he sat down and smiled agreeably, his eyes twinkling. "Only if Lady Mary is agreeable, of course."

But Mary was in no mood for a gentlemen who'd done his best to flirt with her over the summer and coax smiles out of her, only to lead on Rose who - despite her insistence and previous experiences - was more innocent than she believed herself to be. "I'm sure that you've had the pleasure of my dear cousin's company without me, Mr. Blake. You don't need my permission." She wore a smile, but he faltered, not mistaking her meaning.

Still, he sat down, looking to Mary somewhat pathetically as Rose smiled up at him. "Oh yes," Charles' friend spoke up, Mary grimacing as he actually clicked at the waiter for some glasses and champagne, "Blake said that there was a lovely blonde he just _had_ to dance with again, and he was right!"

Mary raised an eyebrow as Rose blushed, somehow taking this Ardley's words as a compliment. Charles managed to smile, but his eyes kept straying guiltily to Mary. Sure she was going to say something she might regret and having no doubt that any beverage bought by these gentlemen would leave a decidedly bitter taste in her mouth, Mary got up from the table to the surprise of everyone else sat down. She'd been right; this night was a terrible mistake.

"I'm just going to...powder my nose."

Rose nodded, concerned that her cousin might get lost in the crowd. "Do you want me to come with you? You can use my lipstick."

Having absolutely no desire to look like she'd been drinking merlot all evening, Mary shook her head, but squeezed Rose's hand gratefully. "No, you're alright. I'll only be a few moments." She squeezed her hand again. "But don't go off anywhere, will you?"

Rose shook her head obligingly, but Mary rolled her eyes as her cousin was soon diverted by the champagne coupe offered to her. Walking away, she knew Charles Blake's eyes were on her. It had been satisfying once to have such attention, satisfying if not necessary. Yet, all she could think as she walked away was that Kemal Pamuk had had brown eyes, too.

* * *

Mary breathed in the night's air, wishing after her coat, as she stood outside the Blue Dragon, both watching people enter and intrigued passers-by walk past. The doorman had been good enough to offer his flask as she watched the world pass by and, in her shocked stupor, had accepted, enjoying the fiery burn of whiskey. It reminded her of sombre evening in the library with Tom, two broken-hearted souls with an Irish bourbon. Still, she decided that it probably tasted better than the champagne inside.

She took a moment to imagine what Matthew would make of this all. Would he be disappointed in her for coming to such a place? Or would he applaud her for taking a chance and acting on a whim? She'd never know, but funnily enough, it didn't matter that much - not when this was perhaps the first time that she'd been alone with her thoughts of Matthew without her chest feeling as if it couldn't get enough air.

Handing the flask back to the doorman and thanking him, espying Soho square but only a few yards into the distance, Mary decided to stroll over and sit down on a bench, knowing she could afford a few minutes more before she should return to the Dragon's lair and ensure that Rose hadn't been whisked off into the night. She doubted it. Rose really did love to dance.

Rubbing her arms, she'd barely made it up the small flight of stairs to the main street, before a familiar voice made her smile, _really_ smile.

"Do my eyes deceive me or is Lady Mary Crawley at a jazz club?"

Mary stopped and turned, as the man in question shook his head, happily bemused. Finally, a friendly face. "It's good to see you too, Evelyn."

**TBC...**

* * *

Thanks for reading and please review!


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for your reviews guys, please keep them coming! I realise it's tough to see Mary without Matthew, but I do think it will be interesting to see how she gets through it. Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Two:**

_When was the last time she'd attended the funeral of someone whose life had come to its natural end? How many years had Granny been telling them all how she wanted her own send-off only for her to attend memorials for Cousin Patrick and James, to stand beside the gravesides of Downton's fallen war heroes, of William Mason, of Lavinia, of darling Sybil..._

_And now, Matthew. The Crawleys were cursed - it was only the logical conclusion, and the mantra that didn't let her sleep at night._

_Though, not all the Crawleys, she conceded, smiling down at her son in her arms, her thumb tracing gentle circles on his cheek as he slept. _Sleep well, my sweet Georgie_. So unaware of all that had happened today, too young to know heartache and too young to comprehend what, _whom_, he'd lost. _

_"Mary?"_

_That he'd lost his father - and here was hers, looking as miserable as she should probably feel, but she was struggling to feel anything these days._

_"People are starting to leave," Robert went on, "- we must thank them for coming."_

_"Well, we wouldn't want to be rude now, would we?"_

_He sighed at her words, but seemed to have expected nothing else. His exasperation was a nice respite from pity, she supposed. "It won't take very long, and then we can shut the doors and retire and put this awful day behind us."_

_"Hmm, if only it were just a day."_

* * *

"I will have your finest whiskey on the rocks and my lovely companion will...?"

"Have the same."

Evelyn raised his eyebrows in surprise at her drink order but acquiesced and ordered two whiskeys. Mary was still wondering how he'd managed to coerce her to return to the club; he was far too amicable a person. He had an effortless way with words which, rather than coming from a place of greasy charm like too many men she'd had the displeasure of meeting, instead came from him being, as her Papa maintained, just a jolly nice chap.

She smiled in thanks as he handed her the tumbler. Her husband had been a jolly nice chap. But Matthew sometimes would bumble his words, or put his foot in it, especially with Mary. She'd found it so irritating to start with, but eventually it became endearing - to see how flustered he was around her, to be so obvious about his feelings. And then, he'd gone to war and returned with a stoicism, _no_ with a confidence, and he'd never flustered around her again. In fact, given time, he learned the knack of knowing just what to say.

Or, at least, learned the knack of knowing just what _Mary_ was going to say and being the only person in this wretched world who never took offence. The one person who loved her, in part, _because_ of her faults, rather than in spite of them.

Mary took her large gulp of her whiskey, but wasn't distracted by its burn. Matthew would have even loved her well now, despite her selfishness. He would have loved her, even though it appeared that she grieved less for the man and more for what the man meant to her.

"Is that your cousin over there?" Hoping Evelyn had chosen to ignore her sombre mood, she followed Evelyn's look back to the booth where Rose still sat in the company of Charles Blake and his friend. She really was the worst chaperone. Evelyn frowned in recognition. "The one that your mother's supposed to be steering in the right direction?"

"Yes, you didn't meet her at the summer party?" Mary asked, pleased for conversation.

"No, I did. I just barely recognise her." Evelyn supplied. "She looked unhappy then."

Mary could believe that. Rose often acted as a woman incarcerated when she was in the country. "What a difference a jazz club makes." She said wryly, before being jolted by somebody for what felt like the hundredth time. The place was near heaving, and Mary had to steady her drink.

Evelyn, in turn, steadied Mary, taking the opportunity to really look at her. "And you look unhappy now." They both blinked at that; Evelyn seemingly more shocked at his statement than Mary did. He grimaced at the faux pas. "Sorry, that was rude. I can be a bit blunt these days."

Blunt? Is that how the war had changed dear Evelyn Napier? Mary didn't have the heart to ask. She'd thought him immune to it all - even when convalescing at Downton, due to injuries caused by shrapnel down his left side, he'd been in good humour. She didn't like the idea that time had altered him, another reminder how much had altered since he'd once come for the hunt in the hopes of winning her affection.

"Well, I'm always unhappy these days," She smiled, assuring him that no apology was necessary, " -so your assessment is fair."

"I'm afraid Charles Blake," Evelyn ventured, offering a friendly warning, having espied what company Rose kept, "whilst an awfully nice fellow, is rather a cad."

Mary had her own suspicions, but Evelyn sounded rather knowing. She raised an eyebrow, thinking back to the summer. "You never warned me off him."

"He made you smile," Evelyn shrugged, as if that explained everything, "- and I guessed that you hadn't smiled for some time."

Mary looked back to her cousin and Charles Blake with fresh eyes. Was that why the gentleman made her feel so uncomfortable now? Perhaps it was simply that she felt guilty for letting him break through and crack a smile from her. That, further still, her vanity was wounded to know that Mr. Blake had no idea what a milestone that had been for her. Mary sighed inwardly as she watched Rose playfully hold out her champagne glass to be filled. She couldn't blame him; it was far less effort - and probably far more enjoyable - to provoke a smile from Rose MacClare.

Evelyn put a voice to her thoughts. "God, sometimes I think that I would pay good money to be that...untroubled." _Wouldn't we all?_ Mary sighed again. "Innocence really is bliss."

"You mean _ignorance_ is bliss."

Evelyn slowly turned back to Mary at her derisive tone. She looked to him questioningly, but rolled her eyes as he failed to stop himself from smiling. She knew that he felt more than vindicated, that indeed Mary Crawley was as miserable as sin. "Same difference, isn't it?" He allowed himself a cheeky wink and downed the rest of his drink, before pushing away from the bar. "Let's have a dance."

Mary started at the sudden change of pace, but wasn't all that surprised. She'd known it was only a matter of time before somebody would ask. She shook her head automatically. "No, I really shouldn't."

"Yes, you should." Evelyn held his hand out, not at all intimidated by the glare that came his way. The war really had changed him; he didn't wilt at all.

Mary sighed heavily, looking at the crowds of people on the floor. It was only a gentle ragtime song and, as her eyes flicked between the many couples dancing - with varying degrees of success -, Mary supposed that she was familiar with it and it wasn't too intimate a tune. And then her mind unwilling thought back to the last time she'd danced - up in Scotland, with Matthew. If she hadn't been so insistent on dancing that bloody reel, she wouldn't have gone into early labour and Matthew wouldn't have rushed down on the train, and then to the hospital in his car...She nearly wretched at the thought of it. But Evelyn, like everybody, wanted to _cheer her up_. Didn't anyone understand the pointlessness of it?

"Mary?" He pressed and, at any other time, she might have admired his determination.

"Why?" Mary said, rather curtly. "Because I should know better than anyone that life is short, that I must stop wallowing? That _this_ will help?"

Evelyn pursed his lips and Mary thought for a moment that he was going to concede defeat and offer to buy another drink instead. But Evelyn Napier was a very observant man - and discreet, too, thank God otherwise her little tryst with that Turk might have been covering newspapers. He'd seen the recognition in her eyes at the music, and her internal debate that she could dance well to it. He'd favoured Lady Mary since her debutante season and though he would never profess to know everything about her, he knew enough. "No." He said patiently. "But because you want to." He smiled, offering his hand once more. "You're Mary Crawley - you were born to dance."

* * *

_She supposed it needed doing, but she almost heaved up her luncheon when she opened his closest. Shirts on hangers, shoes lining its floor. Her fingers had absentmindedly gone out to a jacket's sleeve and she had frowned to see it had worn. Moseley would need to fix that, she'd thought. But it was to take only a moment for her to realise that Moseley would not do anything of the sort. She dropped the sleeve - as if it had scolded her. Not wanting to be sick over her husband's things, Mary turned away and came to sat heavily on the bed. Her mother, who'd been sat at the dressing table, came forward to take her place and contemplate where they should begin. Everything was clean and pressed, waiting to be worn; a sick pretence that Matthew might be touring the estate or have popped into Ripon, but that he would return eventually and here everything waited, for him to change for dinner, for bedtime, for the next day. _

_"You don't have to do this." Mary glanced up to see her mother's sympathetic eyes on her. "Anna can see to clearing this out - if you just tell me what you want to keep and what you don't..." Cora trailed off, as her daughter flinched; she supposed Mary didn't want to part with anything. "You know," she said tentatively, an idea of how to kill two birds with one stone, "I'm sure Cousin Isobel would be more than willing to help."_

_Mary sighed inwardly; her Mama was so convinced that her wariness around Isobel was due to her inability to face this all, that the two of them needed to grieve together, be each other's shoulders to cry on. There was more than a grain of truth to it, but Mary wouldn't be coerced into doing anything. "Cousin Isobel will cry and want to reminisce," she drawled, "- and I'm not doing that." _

_"All right." Cora smiled easily, nervous that the step forward Mary had made in deciding to go through Matthew's things could easily translate into two steps back if she felt pushed. "We'll go through and then Mrs. Hughes can manage it all later. What do you want to do with his clothes?"_

_Her daughter shrugged tiredly, such talk already making her light-headed. "Give them away, I suppose. To a charity or..." What else was she to do? What she _wanted_was for Matthew to wear his clothes, for all of this to be a prolonged nightmare, but seeing as the world wasn't interested in what _she_ wanted, she'd rather bolt the closet door and never see his belongings again. He was seared on her heart, all she ever saw when she closed her eyes - clothes were such an unnecessary reminder, seemingly only here to now mock her. She flinched, as her Mama pulled out a shirt to inspect it. "...unless his mother wants them." Probably in order to build a shrine or something. Her jaw clenched a little, before she blew a tired breath, letting resentment drain from her. Somebody might as well have use of his clothes now. "Or Tom, come to think of it."_

_Cora pursed her lips thoughtfully. If Tom took them, everything would need taking in, which was a hassle in itself, but she couldn't imagine he'd ever accept. Surely, it would be too painful for Mary. Mary, meanwhile, knew she would never see Tom in Matthew's clothes; he'd find it too unsettling to wear a dead man's things, not that her brother-in-law would ever admit to it. "I'll ask," Cora smiled again, but doubtful, "but are you sure that you don't want to hold on to something, did he have a best suit perhaps?"_

_Mary's eyes drifted lazily back to her mother, too tired to even scowl at her. "Yes." She paused, almost relishing the fact that her Mama's stomach was about to turn as hers had been doing, "- I buried him in it."_

_"God." Cora breathed, swallowing at her daughter's bluntness, her worrying skill at speaking the unspeakable as if they were discussing the weather. But she wouldn't allow Mary to avoid sentimentality at the expense of tossing aside mementos that she would come to wish for again. "...Well, there's nothing in here for George, then?"_

_"Really, Mama," Mary pinched the bridge of her nose, now feeling a headache coming on, "- as if any of us sifted through Sybil's wardrobe looking for something to wear." The mention of Sybil stopped Cora in her tracks and the smile, which had been faithfully glued to her face all morning, fell away. Mary finally wilted, immediately knowing the pain she'd caused. She was not so caught up in her grief to forget that her mother, too, had lost somebody. She had never flung Sybil back in Mama's face before, until now. "I'm sorry." She whispered, feeling even worse for dragging her mother into the depths with her._

_"No," Cora murmured, her voice catching, her eyes darting back to the closet, "darling - you don't need to-"_

_"Yes, I do."_

_"...It's because of Sybil that I don't want you to be rash." Her mother insisted tearfully after a moment and Mary could only inwardly squirm in discomfort to see her cry. "I didn't want to part with all of her trousseau, and I'm glad that I didn't. I kept her nurse's uniform - it still smells like my baby." _

_But baby was hardly heard as Cora covered her mouth to quieten the sobs and yet the urge to comfort her never came to Mary. Instead, she had a distinct urge to flee. It had become somewhat of a pattern. She'd fled the hospital when they informed her Matthew was dead, and she'd fled his wake at the earliest possible convenience. She often fled the abbey when she knew Isobel was coming over to see George and she fled from almost every attempt to rebuild her life. It had taken a lot of cunning on her mother's part - with Carson's assistance, she had no doubt - to even convince her that Matthew's belongings needed sorting. Could they really blame her? When avoiding it all seemed so much simpler, when avoiding it all meant that the tiniest part of her could be left to believe this truly was only a nightmare, a mistake, that they'd identified a different body and Matthew was just waylaid somewhere. God, without that tiniest part, she would have lost her sanity weeks ago. _

_"Perhaps I shouldn't be doing this now." Mary said, watching her mother get a handle on her emotions. "The mood that I'm in - this room may take on a certain...Spartan motif." She avoided her Mama's look, her candour serving as an apology._

_"I think that's a good idea." Cora agreed, finding the strength in her voice once more; if her eldest could be honest, then she could keep her tears at bay. "It can wait - for as long as you need it to wait. So, don't worry about - oh!" She tried to close the closet, but something had caught. Cora reached down, coming away with a cane, its handle having fallen to jam the door. "What's - it's Matthew cane! I remember this." She smiled at her daughter with fond remembrance. "That definitely needs keeping somewhere safe."_

_And then it was moments like these when Mary realised that fleeing was futile. That this was her reality. And it was too painful to bear. She tried not to, but her gaze flew to the cane in her Mama's hand. _

You are my stick.

_Hidden at the back of the closet, no doubt. They'd danced and kissed and, whilst it had been a precious memory for her, it had marked Matthew's betrayal of Lavinia. Matthew, the wheelbound, the limping - he'd never been hers. It seemed not only the clothes wanted to mock her. Had they been doomed from that moment? Was that the beginning of her punishment, made all the more crueller by allowing her entrance to Eden before being cast into the inferno? They were a show that'd flopped; funnily enough, being right gave her no joy._

_Her tongue hit the roof of her mouth, she imagined this was what tar tasted like. The past wasn't even safe anymore from her bitterness. No more dancing, no more kissing. No more Matthew._

_"I'd sooner use it for kindling."_

* * *

"Oh London, how I love you!" Rose grinned, somewhat clumsily as a night's drinking got the better of her, and Evelyn reached out to steady her on the pavement. Fairly sure that she'd found her feet, Evelyn reached out a hand as Mary, too, stepped out of the cab, before asking the driver to wait a moment.

His lips quirked with amusement, as Rose practically staggered up the steps to Crawley house. "Are you going to be all right?" Evelyn inquired, dropping his voice for only Mary's ears.

"Just fine." Mary assured him, shaking her head as Rose tried to quietly stumble through their front door. "But Rose, on the other hand..."

Evelyn chuckled good-naturedly, only a little worse for wear from their evening. "My mother always insisted that a hangover was God's show of support for abstinence, but you'll be surprised what a good night's sleep and strong coffee in the morning can do to temper His wrath." Mary smiled politely at the joke, at Evelyn's continued ability to set aside people's embarrassments and put them at ease. If it hadn't been for Evelyn, her cousin would have been dancing on the table tops. "The young are quick to recover."

Mary didn't doubt it; perhaps, she really wasn't young anymore. "Thank you Evelyn - for seeing us home."

"No trouble at all." He assured her, waving her off, going to the cab door once more. "You know where I am."

Having made their goodbyes, Mary wasn't entirely surprised to find Rose collapsed in an armchair in the front drawing room. For a brief moment she feared that she'd passed out, but her cousin's contented sighs and murmurs dismissed any worries. Shaking her head with exasperation, too fatigued to be gentle, Mary called to Rose sharply and bit a smile as the girl jumped awake.

"Let's go upstairs." Seeing Rose's glazed expression, Mary softened a little, holding a hand. "You cannot fall asleep here."

"Does it matter? There's no one to tell on us." Rose grinned cheekily, but Mary's eyebrow was enough for her to heave a dramatic sigh and hold her older cousin's hand and let herself be led. "Oh if we must, but say that you enjoyed yourself."

"Yes, I'll admit it." Mary said softly on the stairs, if only to keep conversation unheated. Although she could admit the evening had improved as the night went on, even if it had been helped along by liquor. "I can see why you're drawn to the Blue Dragon."

"Good." Rose smiled contently, her eyes mostly shut as she let Mary take her across the landing to her room. "Charlie says that a new band from Chicago will be starting there next week - with more jazz from across the pond. Isn't that exciting?"

Mary grimaced, knowing an invitation when she heard one. Could she repeat tonight's performance? Perhaps. But perhaps not. She didn't doubt that her family would somehow hear about it all and then there would be questions and she wasn't sure it was worth the headache.

"If you say so."

"You'd think they'd be happy for me." Rose complained, talking to herself as much to Mary, breaking free from her cousin's grasp so to collapse on her bed. "Cousin Cora's been so kind, but there is always someone watching me like a hawk, sending back reports to mother." Mary rolled her eyes at Rose's plain reference to Granny. "She doesn't understand. It's a new world we live in - and it's all just marvellous fun."

Mary went from pitying Rose to envying her, as she did right now. Even in her younger years, she'd never had the same hopefulness and excitement for what life could offer her as Rose did, and Mary coveted it too much to begrudge her. All that she would do if she could do it over; maybe she should return to the Blue Dragon. Mary had thought to take off Rose's shoes or help her ready for bed, but now she came over and collapsed beside her, if only to see what was so fascinating about the bed's canopy. "What worries _the_ _hawk_, Rose," Mary commented, giving some needed insight to her grandmother, and realising that she must be a little tipsy, daring to refer to Granny so, "is that your idea of marvellous fun doesn't quite match her own."

"_God_, I hope so!" Mary grinned at her earnestness, every feeling of Rose's worn on the sleeve. After a moment longer of staring at the canopy, Rose turned her body on the bed to face Mary, two hands under her face, wearing a grin of her own. "Mr. Napier was very charming. You prefer him to Mr. Blake."

Mary hummed in agreement, still looking above. "Mr. Blake likes the chase, I think."

"Best part."

Mary barked a laugh at that, but grew contemplative once more. "I've played more than my fair share of games - enough for a lifetime."

"Well, that's what love is, isn't it?" Rose shrugged happily. "A sort of game?"

Mary raised a wry eyebrow. "Then I've _really_ had enough."

"You're not the kind to give up on life." Her cousin insisted, and Mary glanced to her, to see a sadness pass over her features. For her cousin Mary? Surely not. Or was it disappointment? That the forthright Mary, unwilling to settle for anything less than what she felt she deserved, whom little Rosie had toddled after as a wee child wasn't as fabulous as previously thought.

"I give up on _love_, Rose," Mary offered softly, shrugging, "not life - there's a difference."

"Is there?"

Mary's head jerked to Rose, but her cousin's eyes were closed, readying for slumber, smiling as they talked. Such an innocent question. And Mary thought her naive before she even considered it.

Holding up the white flag. She loathed doing it more than most.

Mary sighed tiredly; considering it would have to wait until morning. She gingerly sat up and scowled at her reflection in a nearby mirror, her hair mussed up, her dark eyes yearning sleep. She certainly looked like she'd given up on life - but that's what five in the morning did to you. Perhaps Rose was wise before her time. Mary's eyes fell on her as her cousin drifted off, snoring as she lost the battle for consciousness, _sleep well my sweet Rose_, her legs dangled off the bed, half her face sinking into the mattress. Then again, perhaps not.

**TBC...**

* * *

**I'll update soon and please review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A little shorter than my other chapters (sorry) but seemed like the right cut-off point before the next one :) Enjoy**

* * *

**Chapter Three:**

Mary's eyes fluttered shut as the grandfather clock in the dining room chimed. Breakfast was laid out, ready for her to take a plate, but all she could manage was a sweet cup of tea. She may have been relatively sober compared to Rose last night, but that was a small consolation. Rose had drunk her own weight in champagne.

Mary had been imagining - or _hoping_ - her cousin to be slowly dying, her head in a pillow, but soon enough heard her loudly coming down the staircase, clearly with a bounce in her step. Mary could only raise an eyebrow, as Rose appeared in a flurry at the door, still in her dressing gown, looking as fresh as a daisy. Evelyn was right; the young really were quick to recover.

"Mary!" Rose grinned in greeting, rushing over to the breakfast table, and devouring it all with her eyes. "What did you think of the Blue Dragon? Poached eggs, lovely! I love the way the cook does them here, perhaps she could give Mrs. Patman the recipe?"

The babbling did nothing to ease the dull ache which had settled at Mary's temples - her bright disposition being nothing short of nauseating - but Rose's morning manner irritated her less than she thought it would. Her cousin could go from the depths of despair one moment to sheer glee ; it was exhausting and relentless. But her giggles were just as infectious as Sybil's, and it brought an exasperated smile to Mary's lips.

"Mrs. _Patmore_ and on your own head be it." Mary warned her softly, hoping Rose would lower her tone. "Speaking of which, why isn't yours pounding like mine?"

"Oh, I hardly drank." Rose waved her cousin off, coming to sit beside her. Mary merely blinked, before frowning questioningly as Rose hesitated to tuck into her breakfast. "I hope it's agreeable to you," she ventured, " - I've invited Charles Blake over for supper."

"Rose-"

"He promised to take me to all his favourite haunts in the city today," Rose defended before Mary could voice her complaints, "and I thought it was only right to return the kind gesture."

"Mama wouldn't be impressed to know that we'd been dining bachelors alone." Mary sighed, thinking of the look of thing and how she didn't particularly fancy an uncomfortable evening. She raised a wry eyebrow, thinking back to last night. "Neither would the hawk."

Rose blushed quite scarlet at that. Clearly, she couldn't remember all that she'd let slip yesterday and prayed silently her cousin wouldn't relay that back to the hawk in question. She sighed dejectedly as Mary's expression closed off, and Mary did her best to ignore the pleading look coming her way, suddenly feeling far more empathetic towards her own mother. But Rose hadn't thought she would have another Cora on her hands with all the bluntness of Great-Aunt Violet. She had hoped for a partner-in-crime or, at the very least, a widow who was too busy with her own grief to bother with her social life. "Oh Mary, when did you become such a bore?" Rose muttered, picking at her eggs before grimacing apologetically. Mary merely sipped her tea, schooling her surprise at the comment. "I'm sorry, I...you're more than welcome to join us this afternoon." She tried, that sweet smile back in place. But Mary could only roll her eyes, wondering how on earth this girl had fooled so many family members so frequently. For a lover of the dramatic, Rose was a horrible actress.

"Unfortunately," Mary drawled, under no impression that Rose would think it unfortunate at all, "I am having a late luncheon with Edith. She's in town - her editor needs her to alter this week's edition or something, I don't know." She shrugged, frowning at how often she paid little attention to what her sister had to say. She fixed Rose a stare. "I'll be home long before you return." The meaning was clear; propriety may allow Rose to walk a park or see a matinee with the unmarried Charles Blake, but Mary wasn't about to be blamed for letting Rose entertain him alone in Grantham House.

Rose nodded, understanding where she stood. "I don't really think you're a bore." She smiled again, remorsefully. "You almost danced last night."

Mary barked a laugh. How pathetic did that sound? That she'd _almost_ danced. That Evelyn had held out his hand for her and she wasn't able to follow through, reluctant to dance without her favourite dancing partner. She swallowed. _You are my stick_.

"Lady Mary?"

Mary blinked, her mind having wandered off sombrely, as the housekeeper, Mrs. Brooks, - Carson having stayed at Downton, of course - hovered expectantly at the door. "Yes?"

"There's a telephone call for you, milady." Mary sighed; no doubt it was Edith calling to forgo their plans. She shook her head, deciding not to take it. If Edith didn't want to have luncheon, then her sister would simply have to stand her up. Let Mama criticise Edith for not trying hard enough for a change. But before she could open her mouth to decline, Mrs. Brooks went on. "It's Lady Grantham - she sounded quite insistent."

Speak of the devil. Mary had to bite a grin as Rose's smile dropped off and she grew increasingly fascinated with her breakfast. Fearing the hawk had her spies everywhere, no doubt. "You've gone pale, Rose." Mary smirked, getting up from the table. Though she liked to play the rebel, she didn't doubt that Rose really was trying her best not to disappoint Mama. Likely still fearing that one wrong step may see her shipped off to India. "Are you sure you don't have a headache?" Mary thought little of toying with her; Mama would never send Rose away. She'd brought a lightness back into Downton which had been and _was_ so desperately needed.

Her eyes glittering with amusement as her cousin gulped uncomfortably on her orange juice, Mary made her way into the hall and, thinking it best to get it over with quickly, held the candlestick telephone and put the receiver to her ear.

"Hello?"

"_Mary darling_," Cora's eager American lilt crackled down the line, "_how are you_?"

"What's the matter?" Mary asked, not bothering with pleasantries, seeing as she'd already endured three calls and a letter in the last week. "Mrs. Brooks said that you seemed insistent, desperate to talk to me?"

"_How's Rose getting on?"_

Mary grimaced inwardly at the desperation, remembering how Granny and Papa had both advised that it should be Edith to look after Rose in the city. Only Mama had fought for her - sure that a project would help lift Mary's spirits. Clearly, Cora had some regrets. It wasn't surprising really, her mother probably still endured the flashbacks of carrying a dead man from her eldest's bedroom. Mary grimaced some more; she wasn't one for lying. "Tucking into her breakfast."

"_Mary_..."

There was that tetchy desperation again. Poor Mama - her faith in her had been so misplaced. _Well, Mama, Rose enjoyed an evening dancing and drinking at a jazz club and now intends to tour London unchaperoned with a man rumoured to have played with the emotions of many women, if not played with more._ "I haven't chained her to her bedpost if that's what you're hoping. Rose merely enjoys the pursuits of other women her age - she's hasn't embarrassed the family," Mary defended, knowing it to be true but knowing her mother would have a very different take on the facts. She rubbed the back of an ankle with her foot, the telephone heavy in her hands but she was unwilling to sit down - getting comfortable would only end up drawing the conversation out longer. Mary sighed, bored of the pretence. "But you haven't rang in order to check on our young Rose."

Playing the fool had proved unsuccessful so Cora owned to it without apology. "_It's been a fortnight. Don't you think it's time to come home?_"

"Don't you think of Grantham House as our home?" Mary asked innocently, not even understanding herself why she insisted on testing her mother's patience.

"_Papa is anxious for you to return_." Cora went on, doing her best not to sound pleading. "_You have responsibilities here, duties_."

Duties? When _didn't_ she have a duty to someone? A duty to Papa to marry the heir, be it Patrick or Matthew; a duty to abide by society's rules, to keep silent about Pamuk; a duty to both Lavinia and Matthew, to keep them in the dark about her feelings; a duty to marry Richard after he'd bought her secrets. The list went on and now it seemed she had a duty to her family to stop grieving, to return to Downton. Somehow, in the early light of day, Rose seemed wise once more. She was a bore. "I gave Papa an heir," she shrugged, knowing what duty mattered to her father most, "- very aptly timed, I must say."

Her mother sighed into the receiver, but that was all, now quite used to her daughter's penchant for morbid humour. "_Yes, your _son_ - Nanny says George has been very restless ever since you left. He misses you terribly_." Another sigh. "_We all do_."

Guilt - it often seemed the sole weapon in her mother's arsenal and these days she could be shockingly indifferent to it. "Is that all, Mama?" Mary replied, indignation flaring at everybody's continued advice as to her son and his needs. "Is this why you've interrupted my breakfast?"

"_You cannot bury your head in the sand any longer, darling." _Her mother's voice, now well and truly pleading with her, though her words seemingly borrowed from Granny. "_Gallivanting about the city with Rose won't make you forget or give you a do-over. A child needs their mother. What would Matthew think, to see-"_

Mary blinked, her breathing quite heavy, almost surprised to see the receiver so quickly on its hook. It had been an immediate reaction. The instant that her mother had started to hypothesise on what Matthew might think - _God_, it made her feel sick to a stomach in a way that she knew had nothing to do with last night's proceedings. As if Mama or anyone else had the faintest idea what Matthew would have thought, as if they had the right to dwell on it. He couldn't think; he was _dead_. And damn anyone who made out otherwise. _He left us_. She nodded, closing her eyes, ignoring the flare of anger that shot through her. _Don't imagine what he would say._

Taking a calming breath before stepping through once more into the dining room, Rose's head shot up, her expression concerned as her cousin rigidly sat down. "Mary?"

"Suddenly, I've lost my appetite."

It only took a look for Rose to realise that Mary didn't want to discuss it, but she tried anyway. "What's wrong?"

"What have you planned before your tour with Mr. Blake?" Mary smiled thinly, ignoring Rose's question.

"Well," Rose smiled, "I'm going to a lovely salon in Kensington - it takes a genius to untangle these curls."

Mary raised a brow, pleased for a change in subject. "You're having your hair cut?"

"Only an inch or two," Rose admitted, taking a bite out of her toast. "I'm not brave enough to try the bob - not very feminine, is it?"

Mary started at her choice of words, an unbidden memory taking hold. _I'm not sure how feminine I am._ And then, there was that flare of anger again. Because, whilst her family could only imagine what Matthew might think, she _knew_ what he would think and, frankly, she didn't care for it. Because he didn't have the right, because he'd left her alone. He'd left her alone and had taken any semblance of the woman he'd married with him. "I think I might come." Mary said, after a moment, another thin smile on her face. That memory dancing across her eyes still. _I hope you won't try that._ "I think I might be brave enough for a change."

* * *

_The Dowager Countess leant heavily on her stick and could only watch in horror as another footman brought in another orchid. Her mother sat incredulously in her chair and Carson, too, couldn't help but frown with displeasure._

_"Orchids?" Mary's eyes fluttered shut at her grandmother's near squawk. "Who sends orchids with their condolences?"_

_But Mary, admiring the room of flowers, was pleased for the distraction. And though she'd never come to love him, she was strangely relieved that, even now, he had not changed. There was only one man in this world who had the vulgarity and the money to fill the drawing room with these exotic flowers. Orchids were her favourite. And she understood it immediately. He didn't give a fig about Matthew, but he'd cared about her. _

_"Mary, who are they from?"_

_Cora asked, still in confusion, and Mary barely looked away from the latest flower as Carson handed her the card that came with them: _

One of us, at least, should have had the happy ending. Richard_._

* * *

Subconsciously going to her hair to find that it still only came to her shoulder, Mary's impatience started to grow as she waited in the lobby for her sister. At this rate, they were going to miss their reservations. She almost scowled as another gentleman sent her an inquisitive look as they marched on by. Newspapermen all rushing back and forth to God knows where for God knows what reason. Glancing around the large room, she wondered how many floors Edith's little paper occupied and could only suppose that she'd wanted to meet her here in the hopes of showing off. But if Fleet Street had impressed Mary then she'd have married a different man long ago.

"Mary."

She blinked sharply, as the gentleman in question stopped in his march and frowned in recognition. _At least he was still breathing_, she thought dryly, naturally coming to stand. She watched as the swarm of men surrounding Sir Richard Carlisle - and running his empire, she supposed - all started, too, suddenly realising their leader had come to a standstill.

"Hello." She said, rather dumbly.

Richard went to smile, but then seemed to think better of it. Pouting in deliberation for a moment, he turned to the swarm."Would you excuse me a moment, gentlemen? I'll meet you upstairs." Mary could see they were intrigued, but being little good worker bees they said nothing, smiled accommodatingly and went on their way through the lobby. Richard turned back to her, and put a hand in his pocket, taken aback by her presence. "What are you doing here?"

"To see my sister." Mary said crisply, feeling those first nerves dissipate. "We're going to the Ritz. Or rather, she's taking me to the Ritz - quite the working woman, now."

He could only smirk at the faint derision in her tone. "_Ah_, Edith - of course. I never thought you two did much together."

She raised an eyebrow at his presumption to know her, but he was right. "What can I say," She shrugged, "- I'm running out of people to dine with."

Most would have balked at her callousness. Papa would have blanched and Mama would have sobbed. But Richard could only smirk at it, content to be in the company of one as callous as he. Mary didn't need to elucidate, she knew; Sybil, Matthew - Richard would have learned all about it.

"I hear that congratulations are in order." Richard went on. Mary raised a questioning brow. "I read that you had a baby, a son."

"Yes, yes we did." She confirmed quietly. "I did."

"He's not dining today?"

Mary almost scoffed at how terribly middle class he was, to think that a baby might dine at the Ritz. Honestly. She swallowed to wonder if her middle-class husband might have felt the same. "The baby's in Yorkshire. Dirty city air and all that; I didn't want to take any chances." She said it nonchalantly enough, but she looked away, knowing Richard could see between all the lines.

"How long have you been in London?"

"Not long. I'm here with my cousin Rose," She ventured, "I don't suppose that you-"

"No, I remember." He remembered everything about her. She wasn't even sure that she could remember his brother's name.

Feeling remiss in her manners, Mary smiled, more pleasantly this time. "My Aunt Rosamund told me that you were recently engaged - I hope that you and she do well together." The attractive and fair-haired Lady Anna Withers who'd been a debutante with Sybil. A vain girl, but Mary didn't want to ponder on the similarities between herself and Richard's fiancée. He raised a sceptical eyebrow, but Mary merely kept on smiling. "_Really_, I'm happy that you found someone."

"No, you're not," Richard said, knowing her too well but returned the smile in kind, "but I won't take it personally. I suppose that you're incapable of being happy for anybody, including yourself for the moment, at least. When do you leave?"

Mary 's throat closed to hear the truth spoken so nonchalantly. "I haven't decided yet."

"Well, you must be itching to get back to him." Another questioning eyebrow. "Your son, Mary."

"Oh, the baby's in perfectly safe hands," Mary said, not liking where he now lingered. He never had liked talking about himself, though he could rabbit on about his newspapers for hours, and she knew all the uncomfortable questions would be for her. "Mama does dote on him so, as does Papa, of course. Their first grandson - Downton's heir."

"_Downton's heir_," Richard drawled and Mary's cheeks flushed at his mocking. "Is that a family name?" His turn to raise an eyebrow. "Do you always call him _the baby_?"

_Sometimes_, she looked down at the ground, at her shoes, _but it doesn't help._ "What are you doing here, Richard?" Mary asked tiredly, meeting his steady gaze again.

Unrepentant, but he didn't push her. Instead, he sniffed, standing taller as he suddenly remembered where they were and why he was there. "I've come to inquire after my newest investment."

A confused beat. "You've bought Edith's magazine?"

"Well, it was hardly Edith's now, was it..." Richard smirked, enjoying the rare pleasure of shocking Mary Crawley, "- but yes, I now can boast _The Sketch_ among my many publications." He waited for her shock to turn wry. It didn't.

"What?" She asked curtly, having had her fill of social niceties for one day and no longer enthralled by the idea of luncheon at the Ritz, let alone with her tardy sister.

"I'm merely surprised that you have no cutting retort, that's all." He shrugged jovially and Mary shook her head, bemused at his seemingly good humour. After their drawn-out, sorry-excuse for an engagement, Richard still acted quite the same. "...I don't pity you, you know."

_Yes_, quite the same. "I know." And strangely, she was pleased by that fact. Too many people - herself very much included - were pitying her.

"To lose a husband the day you gain a son..." But that was a little too close to the bone, and Mary swallowed uncomfortably. He grimaced apologetically and offered another shrug. "Life can be grossly unfair, but there are worse things than death."

Mary bit her lip to stop from crying or laughing, she wasn't sure. "A balm to my soul." She deadpanned.

"Look at my editor, trapped in limbo," Richard went on conversationally, happily tapping his hat against his leg, "- our very own Mr. Rochester or so they tell me." Mary's ear pricked up at that,_ Mr. Rochester? _Richard sighed, mistaking her startled expression for condemnation. "Don't pretend gossiping is so very below you, Mary, you're as guilty of it as I am."

The insult slid by unnoticed. "The editor, _here_?" Mary asked, looking about the room as the blanks might suddenly be filled. "Michael Gregson?" Richard took a moment to run the fellow's name through his mind. Mary blinked, _Jane Eyre_ quickly coming back to her. "He's _married_?"

"To a madwoman, poor chap," He supplied before a cheeky smirk made its way on to his face, "but all females are a little mad in their ways, I find."

Another ignored insult. _Edith_. "But he's-"

"Been paying special attention to your sister?" Richard ventured, the smirk still in place and looking like a man who had too many answers to too many questions. "Yes, I'd heard that, too."

**TBC...**

* * *

**Please review! Next one should be posted sooner :)**


End file.
